


mea maxima culpa

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: After Savoy, the guilt resting on Aramis’ shoulders feels heavier than the Earth itself.





	mea maxima culpa

After Savoy, the guilt resting on Aramis’ shoulders feels heavier than the Earth itself. He is Atlas, weighed down by memories; by echoes of the cries of wounded, frightened men; by images of red on white that seem etched into his mind. When he closes his eyes, he sees a man–sees Marsac, who would seem to be asleep if it wasn’t for all the blood.

Paris is bright and loud and warm with the promise of spring–it’s everything that Savoy wasn’t, yet wherever he turns, he’s brought right back to that night, to the cold and the pain and the way Marsac’s hand felt in his as he whispered the last rites into his blood-soaked hair.

* * *

It’s the silence that speaks volumes.

Porthos doesn’t think he’s ever gone this long without hearing Aramis speak, not since he joined the Musketeers. Even before Savoy, he’d have days when he wasn’t as talkative, when his pensive mood would shine through and leave him quiet, brooding, but even then, it didn’t take much to bring him out of it, or to at least distract him for a while.

But this is different. This is loss, grief, sorrow, and guilt, all heaved upon a man who already had more than enough of it to carry, and who never deserved it in the first place.

Porthos knows better than to tell Aramis this, yet he hopes he knows, if not through words, then through looks and touches, that no one blames him. Even if they weren’t there, they know he did everything in his power to protect his brothers, as he always does. Fate just wasn’t on his side, this time.

* * *

Paris is thawing with the oncoming spring, but not even the warm hands of his lovers can banish the chill that seems to have settled into Aramis’ bones.

Even as the sun rises, warming sheets and skin and drawing a groan from Athos as he rolls out of its light, Aramis feels cold. Even with his lovers beside him, skin on skin in the bed that really is too small for the three of them, he feels alone. Marsac was never Athos, never Porthos, but they were never Marsac, either.

He feels ungrateful, mourning a loss when he has so much left, feeling abandoned when he is so loved, but he simply cannot shake the pain. It has shifted in shape, no longer so immediate that a tear threatens to fall with every breath he takes, but it’s still there, the ache behind his ribs, a ghost calling out simply to remind him it hasn’t left.

* * *

It’s cold, but he isn’t shivering. The ground is covered in snow, and the trees seem to stretch on forever, no matter what direction he looks in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aramis knows this isn’t real, but it doesn’t matter. He just wants to see his face again.

"Aramis." The voice is weak and distant, but Aramis knows who it belongs to as soon as he hears it, and before he knows it, he’s running.

* * *

"Aramis, I don’t know–"

"Please," Aramis whispers against Porthos’ lips, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks as he presses their foreheads together. "They all–they all die. The people I love. I need know there are still some of you left."

Over Aramis’ shoulder, Porthos meets Athos’ eyes, feeling unsure. Athos looks much the same, but pretending that either of them could ever deny Aramis anything would just be a waste of time.

Stepping forward, Athos puts his hands on Aramis' hips and lays a kiss to the bare skin of his left shoulder, where his shirt is slipping. Aramis closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in the touch, before he turns around to capture Athos' mouth with his own. As he does so, the roles reverse, and now it's Porthos who's brushing his lips over Aramis' back, up along the bumps of his spine, over the nape of his neck, across the curve of his shoulder.

* * *

Aramis leaves more than blood and brothers behind in Savoy. Among the trees, hidden under snow, lies a part of himself that he can’t bring home.

* * *

Athos and Porthos kiss him like the pious men they’re not. They hold him close, like they want to banish the winter chill from Aramis’ cheeks with their own hands. Sometimes, Aramis thinks they come close, but the cold has settled in his bones like a disease–they no longer hold marrow, but snow.

It is Aramis who prays, but it is Athos and Porthos who believe. _Don’t waste your faith on me_ , Aramis wants to tell them. _Go, and take your love with you–there is someone out there who deserves it._

But they both know better than to treat Aramis’ depreciation of himself as anything but a fleeting figment of his imagination, and so they simply continue to love Aramis. They love him as much as they did before; they love him without condition; they love him without doubt.

And there, in the arms of his lovers, Aramis thinks he might just find peace.


End file.
